"So I'm Sittin' In This Bar..." Vol. I

In the past, I’ve written essays on the same subject, such as television. In fact, the last one I wrote only generated one comment, and it was from a relative who told me I needed to get a life. Thanks. Anyway, I decided to start another series, an idea I’ve been entertaining, but have never actually played with. I want to welcome you to my bar stories. I’m going to relate some of the things that I’ve seen in bars from all over the world. Some are recent and some are decades old. I hope you find them interesting.

So I’m sittin’ in this bar in Baltimore. I was in town for a week for work with several other people, and I wasn’t driving the car, and that sucks. If you’ve ever been traveling with a group, you know what I mean. Anyway, one of the guys who had been there before had a few places he wanted to show me, and this was one of them. I’ve been in a lot of bars. I mean, a lot, but I have never been in one like this. It was an old building. It was a banquet hall on one side and a tavern on the other. I noticed the sign when we pulled in the parking lot. It said “Welcome Class of 49”. Really. Anyway, we went in the tavern side and right into what might as well have been “The Shining”. The walls were cream colored and lit entirely with recessed lights, the kind where the lights are hidden by plaster balcony-looking soffits that spanned every wall a foot or so below the ceiling. In every corner, there was a large faux marble, urn-shaped planter with fake red flowers spilling out of it. There was a large U-shaped bar and an area at the bottom of the U that was behind us. It had four or five booths and as many tables, all covered with lace tablecloths. All the tables were populated with senior citizens dining quietly. In fact, it was the quietest bar I’ve ever been in. We sat at the bar and waited for the bartender, who had make up on like Morticia Addams and was dressed like Dean Martin, complete with an impossibly white shirt and a black bow tie and a black vest. She was young, but had a drastic, old lady hairdo stretched into a little bun. It was pulled back so tight on her head it made my teeth hurt. There were two large flat screen TVs behind her with no volume. When I ordered my drink every person in the room could hear it. I half expected to see a sardonic Jack Nicholson behind her shoulder raising a glass as the skin on his face fell off. I made some small talk with the guys I was with, and didn’t show my fear. They had a KENO game going and I spent three dollars for three games every three minutes so I could concentrate on the monitor and not have to look at the diners who were, I was sure, tossing bones on their plates that weren’t chicken. I actually won a dollar back and managed to finish my drink without any social interaction at all. I looked at the guys I was with who had the “another?” look and I said, “Nope, I’m tired, let’s go,” and we left. I didn’t feel safe until we got back out into the sunlight. As we walked to the car, we passed the entrance to the banquet hall where two elderly people were walking down the cement stairs. I said “Hello” as I passed and they said nothing. Yup. Got out of there before the sun went down and the monsters came out.

So I’m sittin’ in this bar in Holland, Michigan. If you’ve ever visited there, you know it’s a quaint, touristy place. If you’ve ever lived there you know it’s a haven for religious weirdoes who (at the time) decided it was necessary to have a law against mowing your lawn on Sunday. Really. Anyway, I’m sitting at the bar when this young girl walks in with a baby in a car seat, sits next to me and orders a rum & coke. She didn’t look old enough to drink, let alone have a kid, but there she was. The kid with the kid had phenomenal tits, so I overlooked her obvious stupidity. She was wearing a V-neck shirt with laces that were literally bursting. For one brief moment, I was jealous of the infant. If she was my mother, I’d breast feed until I was 20. Anyway, as is my usual custom, I waited for her to start talking to me, and of course, she did. We exchanged mild pleasantries and then she started talking about…something, but I don’t remember what it was. Call me a chauvinist, but I was not hearing a word she was saying. I “uh-huhed” when I was supposed to and it lasted for a while, but eventually, abruptly, I realized it was my turn to speak and I hadn’t been listening. Because I was an honest, non-thinking-ahead sort of fellow, I blurted out exactly what I was thinking. I said, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening. I was staring at your chest.” And just like that, she slapped me. The bartender looked over at us. I set my drink down and said, “Listen, Missy. If you walk with a neon sign around your neck that says ‘Don’t Look At This Sign,’ you’d better not be surprised when someone does.” She didn’t get it, but I had stopped listening again. She started calling me a pervert or something and I looked at the bartender, fully expecting to explain myself, but the bartender scooted up to where we were and put her finger in the busty girl’s face and told her to leave. Now. The girl got up, bitching, obviously angry, and I couldn’t help but notice how great her tits looked, shaking as she was fumbling with her purse and her baby. She stormed out the door and the bartender bought me a drink for my trouble. Ain’t life grand?

Stay tuned for more bar stories. I’ve been meaning to write more often and I will. You’ll have to pardon me when it’s fluffy stuff like this, but these are stories I enjoy telling.

More From the Idiot Box

Way back last year I wrote a little blurb about hockey. (You can read it here.) It’s that time of year again and I’m watching the Stanley Cup playoffs. My team is doing well, although they have, of late, been nail-bitingly difficult to watch. I have faith that they will prevail. Go Wings! (I promise that’s my only hockey plug.)

We should all know that TV doesn’t cater to viewers, it caters to advertisers. It’s hard to find programs that aren’t produced with the sole intent of trying to sell you something, and televised hockey is no exception. Even though the teams playing have changed in the past two months, the commercials haven’t. As much as I love to watch this game, I can’t help but be disillusioned by the companies that bring them to me. Perhaps you’ve seen some of them. Watch out, because I’m getting on my soapbox.

The Good: See it here: Bridgestone Tires
In this commercial, a man and (presumably) wife are driving on a road through a forest when a squirrel that happens to be sitting in the path of the vehicle sees them, and begins to scream. Normally computer generated animals with human voices creep me out, but for some reason, this one is funny. Anyway, as the squirrel screams, other animals in the forest begin to scream, each with a different voice, and finally we cut back to the oncoming vehicle where we see the woman in the passenger seat screaming. We get a full 10-15 seconds of blood curdling howls. The man smirks and calmly misses the squirrel, putting an immediate end to the din. You’d think it would be annoying, but it’s just funny. Maybe you have to love horror movies to find screaming funny, I don’t know. If I’m not mistaken, this commercial first aired during the Stupor, er, Super Bowl, so I guess it’s old hat. Call me crazy, but as far as commercials go, it’s still welcome.

The Bad: Accuvue Contact Lenses
In this one, two men are playing what appears to be “backyard” football (American), complete with matching uniforms, which is kind of weird. One man passes the ball to another, who bobbles, then drops it. The man who fumbled the ball immediately takes off his glasses and blames them for his inability to catch the ball. Once he’s fitted for contact lenses, though, his game is perfect. Now, as a person who has worn glasses since the fourth grade, I can tell you right now that as long as they are on your face, not covered in mud or you haven’t had your prescription updated, you can see. The man in the commercial has his glasses on when he mishandles his catch, so it was in his hands. How, then, did his glasses make him drop the ball? That’s like saying “I was going to kick the ball but my ear was in the way.” What message does this impart? It must be the “What can I blame my shortcomings on” lesson. Ridiculous.

The Ugly: Edge Shaving Gel
There are so many things wrong with this commercial. In the first part of this advertisement, we are asked what makes this shaving gel feel so enjoyable. We zoom down to the size of a dust mite on a cheek that needs to be shaved where whiskers are the size of trees, and beautiful women with tanks on their backs like flame throwers are squirting white foamy aloe and moisturizers all over the whiskers, and, of course each other. I’m OK with a fantasy like that. Women in bathing suits lolling about in a sea of whipped cream isn’t a bad thought at all. But, as soon as that commercial is over, the next comes on for Edge gel, but this time the selling point isn’t the moisturizing aspect, it’s the aroma. In the same vein, we are shrunk again to see an army of beautiful women wearing jet-packs on their backs, blasting off. Trouble is, they are flying up a huge nostril. As they enter, the woman at the center of attention has a look on her face that can only be described as anxiously exhilarated; she can’t wait to get up that nose. In the next scene, there’s a dance party going on in the nasal cavity, complete with music and a disco ball shining a thousand lights on a red mucous membrane wall. I find myself scratching my nose every single time I see it. I know some people have a fascination with various orifices, but the nose just doesn’t strike me as one that a person can’t wait to get into. Whoever thought this was a good campaign is wrong. It’s snot. (Cue drum/cymbal crash.)

Like it or not, television is here to stay, and I suppose I should be grateful to it for providing me endless fodder for “rant” essays. I love to hate TV.

Garden Party

I got lost right outside my door the other day. I was out sprucing up my patio, literally thinking about nothing when my attention was caught by an airplane floating across the sky. It was bright orange against a perfect blue sky, and I couldn’t hear its engines. In that second, I had one of those joyous moments when I suddenly remembered something I hadn’t thought of in years; it was like I could see the past like it had just happened. I remember my grandmother stopping what she was doing to run outside in her house shoes and shade her eyes so she could watch jets fly overhead. She literally marveled at them, and asked that she be buried in a cemetery near an airfield so the planes could fly over her forever. My siblings and I used to laugh when she stood outside in her smock and gawked at the jets. If there were more than two, she was convinced that the Blue Angels were overhead, and would look up in the sky and then back at us to see if we were looking, then back up in the sky, smiling the smile of a person in awe. There were no airplanes when she was a girl. She was born on a farm and bore my father on a farm; she never drove a car in her life. When I was a kid, Star Trek was my favorite television show. The people of the future, as I saw it, had the most wonderful gadgets anyone could think of. Not only did they have spaceships, they had communicators with which they could talk to one another instantly. They could record without film and transplant organs. Absurdly, I thought, “Wow.” I’ve turned into my grandmother.

I wouldn’t have had any of those thoughts if I hadn’t been outside in my little garden.

It’s a small patio with a few flowerbeds that, until last weekend, was populated only by weeds. Now it has freshly hoed (sandy) soil, a damp, earthy aroma, and seeds for impossibly colorful flowers that I hope are germinating as I write. But what it lacks in size it makes up for with a relaxed, cordial atmosphere. It is a place to let my mind flow freely. I can almost hear Louis Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World” as I daydream, wondering if my flowers will look like the ones on the package. Nothing is urgent in the garden. Unless you’re an ant.

Even though I know better, I put out food for a couple stray cats that also seem to enjoy lounging about on the patio. Being outdoor cats, they don’t seem to be as dainty as indoor ones, and often scatter bits of food around the plastic plate I put out for them. I was on the patio, smoking and assessing the garden, wondering what sort of improvement I should make next, when something caught my eye. I had to look twice to make sure I wasn’t relaxing to the point of hallucination. As I watched, an errant piece of cat food, the size of a pea, maybe, was moving by itself across the bricks. A closer look revealed four tiny ants carrying what to them must have seemed like a miracle from the gods. As I looked, I saw a second piece of cat food being carried to a small pile of sand dug out between the cracks of the patio floor. It was only about eight feet from the cat food to the anthill, but I got to thinking that what they were doing was akin to four humans lugging a cupcake fifty yards wide to a cave twenty miles away. I had to smile as I admired the ants. I saw that they had reached the entrance to their home, but had encountered a problem: The piece of cat food was too wide to fit in the crack. They tried it from every angle but it wasn’t going to fit. I imagined myself as a great benefactor, and reached down, picked up the piece of cat food and broke it so the crumbs would fit the doorway. The ants scurried about when I put the pieces back down but it didn’t take them long to get the smaller loads delivered. As I watched, one of the stray cats wandered back and stepped directly on the ants’ receiving dock. I shooed her back, but she was persistent and came again, only this time, she must have smelled the tiny piece of food, because she inhaled it, ants and all, and crunched it away. She looked up, smacking her lips, oblivious to the frenzy she had caused among the ants. I put a little more food on the dish to distract the cat, and my cell phone rang. I talked for a few minutes and when I hung up the phone, I realized I was standing on the anthill.

In spite of the onslaught of technology, or perhaps because of it, there just isn’t anything like digging in the dirt, planting seeds, and daydreaming. No matter how bad we may think things are for us, they could be much, much worse. Giant monsters could appear in the sky, eat us and crush our dwellings, and never think once what they’ve done. Yup. I can get lost in my garden.

From Beyond

I had a conversation the other day about ghosts. OK, to be honest, I butted into a conversation that was already going on about ghosts. One co-worker had said to another, “I think there’s a ghost in my new apartment. I turned off my alarm and fell back asleep, but suddenly, inexplicably, my bedroom light turned on all by itself!” The other person readily accepted this explanation, and proceeded to tell her own story of other-worldly hijinks, as if it is a common occurrence for the spirit world to help or hinder us as they see fit. I simply cannot sit idly by while topics like this are discussed. I try to mind my own business, but the temptation is too great. “Why,” I asked, “would a ghost take time out from his or her incorporeal activities to make sure you don’t oversleep?” The answer, of course, was that it was a “good ghost.”

Can I say for certain that there is no such thing as a ghost? No, but by the same token, we cannot automatically attribute peculiar happenings to the supernatural. There are, though, those who claim not an unseen visitor, but a visual apparition. You know somebody who tells that story, often made to seem more plausible because a child saw it too, and why would the little darlings lie, or, to be fair, make up a story? They stand firm in their belief that they “saw” a ghost, and no amount of logic or alternate (read: plausible) explanations will make them change their minds. I suppose if I saw one, I would change my tune, but until then, I stand firmly in the realm of the explainable, always keeping in mind that the person who tricks you the best is yourself.

Anyone who knows me knows I can’t get enough of horror movies, stories, and supernatural fiction, so it’s not like I’m unfamiliar with spooky stuff. There are times when I wish there were monsters. (One of my favorite fantasies involves gorgeous female vampires that look a lot like Elvira, but I don’t think I should write that down.) I can’t say I’ve seen a ghost, but there have been times I have felt that things just weren’t quite right, like I wasn’t alone. Every time this has happened, I’ve been outside. I hope, if I ever find myself wandering the earth after I’m dead, that I’m in a forest somewhere, and not trapped in some skittish girl’s bedroom. Anyway, there’s something about being in nature that lets me allow the possibility of ghosts, or at least, another consciousness. Just the other night, in fact, I witnessed a scene that, if ever there was one, infused me with the feeling of other-worldliness.

The sliding patio door of my (new) apartment faces west, so every night I get to see the sun go down. That may not seem like a big deal, but I’ve always been a bit partial to sunsets. So, a couple days ago, I walked past the slider just in time to see the sun go past the huge live oak tree it always shines on before it goes away. This, of course, was nothing new, but a couple minutes later, I walked into the bedroom of the apartment, which faces east, and was more than a little surprised to see the window lit up with the deep orange glow that only comes from a sunset. Well, now, as you can imagine, this just wasn’t right at all, so I walked back to the other room and went outside to see just what was going on.

When I stepped out onto my patio, it was the same view I always see, but it was lit from the wrong side. It was surreal and fascinating. Everything was as it should be, except it was wrong. What had happened was that the setting sun had illuminated a huge blanket of clouds that hung to the east; they looked like they were on fire. The reflected light from these clouds shone down upon my little corner of the earth and lit the dusk for a second time, except from the opposite direction. All the buildings, the trees, the grass, everything glowed in an unearthly seeming scene, except that it was earthly, the same scene I see every day…only different. It was like being high, only better. It lasted about ten minutes, the time it took me to have a smoke, and then it was over. Right as it ended, a cat meowed at my patio door. Still marveling at the backwards sunset, I let it in into the patio area and it wrapped around my legs, greeting me like I was an old friend. Weird, huh?

Perhaps what I saw is what people who see ghosts experience: They see the world, for just a moment, in a different way. Now, I don’t mean to imply that the weird lighting and the meowing cat were signs from Mr. Kitty (see previous post) stranded in feline limbo, but it was really weird. I still don’t believe in ghosts, but it did cross my mind. In any case, the nub of my gist, I guess, is that ordinary things seen in a different light have a way of firing the imagination. And that’s good.

Dumb Animals

I watched a show about animal intelligence this evening, and it got me thinking. One story in particular, about dogs, featured a Doberman that had been living homeless, eating garbage and fending for itself. It was adopted by a woman who took it home and, after gaining its trust, noticed that it had a very odd behavior: It would arrange toys in very specific ways, and the woman, who was not a scientist, keenly noticed this trait and notified someone who did know about such things. After taking great pains to ensure the dog wasn’t coached or was being inadvertently cued by hovering humans, films of the dog showed that it did, indeed, place toys in carefully “thought out” arrangements. Triangles were a favorite, and straight, often parallel lines were also in the dog’s repertoire. Many times, the dog would place the toys (stuffed bears or frogs) in piles of three or four. You might say any dog could do that, but this particular dog would arrange the toys so that all would either be face up or face down. Random you say? Possibly. But the dog had a trick that, in my opinion, exhibited a human-like quality that is simply impossible to ignore. Here’s what happened.

Because the dog had been taken from a solitary life, the woman who adopted it had to have a good deal of patience, especially when it came to common human/dog interactive behavior such as petting. The dog was skittish at first with the woman, and wouldn’t allow her to touch him very much, but he did put his decorating skills on display. Gradually, the apprehension faded, and there came a time when the woman was able to put her arm completely around the dog, giving it a hug, as it were. The amazing arranging dog then added a new flair to its toy placement the very next day: The woman noticed that it had placed several toys in groups of two, and without fail, one of the arms of the random toys was wrapped around the other, as if hugging it.

It’s easy for humans to associate their emotions with that of a dog (Awww, he’s sad, or he’s thinking about dinner), but I found it utterly fascinating that a dog would manipulate its toys to mimic behavior. What was the dog trying to do? Communicate?

We just don’t give animals enough credit sometimes. The last line of the program, spoken about dogs, said “They know us far better than we know them”, and I cannot argue with that, but I wouldn’t confine it to just dogs. I believe the same can be said for cats, and I’ll make my case for it. As usual, I have to tell one story to tell another, so bear with me.

My cat died recently. I’d had him for fifteen years, but I have no idea how old he was. My ex wife brought him home one day, and he looked the same then as he did the day he died, albeit minus a few teeth. I won’t bore you with how wonderful he was; there were times when he pissed me off to no end. He wasn’t nearly as expressive as the artistic dog, but he got his points across. If I left for a week at a time for vacation, or even for a day or two, he would make his statement by pooping in the shower stall. Not a wet, messy spray, but one well-placed little turd left lying on the drain strainer told me that while he could fend for himself for a couple days, he didn’t really like it. He also didn’t like riding in the car, but he resigned himself to it and didn’t freak out. I don’t think he ever communicated as clearly, though, as he did in the last minutes of his life.

In spite of being clawless from the day I first saw him, he was an excellent hunter. He could dispatch mice, crickets, other cats, even dogs nearly 20 times his weight. (Well, not dispatch the dogs, but he could sure back them down.) If another animal was in his territory, he made it known who the top cat was.

It was both interesting and heart-wrenching to see him confront another cat as he lay dying. I’ll spare you my feelings at the time and instead share what I saw. I had taken Mr. Kitty to an emergency vet. He was obviously in great distress, and I knew what was happening. He lay on an exam table, awake but breathing laboriously. The vet had already examined him and confirmed that death was imminent. I agreed that she should give him a shot to put him to sleep, and then she would administer a lethal injection. As we waited for her to return with the first shot, a resident cat at the clinic, which obviously had run of the place, sauntered into the room. Mr. Kitty couldn’t see him (he was busy dying), so I didn’t do anything. Much to my surprise, the “house cat” (a huge animal) jumped right up on the exam table and went nose to nose with my cat. I thought, “Oh, great! He’s dying and he’s going to think he has to fight one more time,” but he didn’t. Mr. Kitty moved his front paws a little, and croaked out a meow, but the other cat just kept on sniffing him. And then, as I watched, both cats closed their eyes and shared a gentle nudge, as if one knew and sympathized with the other. The resident cat then curled up right beside mine, silently waiting, as if at a friend’s deathbed to wait for the final visit.

I was a mess while this happened, and when the vet finally returned, she pooh-poohed the mourning cat who got off the table, with a disgruntled look. She told me the needle she had would put him to sleep in about five minutes, and then she would come back and give him the real one. She injected him and then left us alone. I stroked Mr. Kitty’s head and tried to be soothing in spite of my halting voice. His breaths grew farther apart and within two minutes, he was dead. I sat there for another five minutes with my dead cat waiting for the vet, and when she came back, I told her I didn’t think he’d need the final shot. She felt his pulse, and said, yes, he was gone. I already knew that.

Did the cats share a moment of understanding? I don’t know. But I do know that it’s been a long time since I felt so moved, and we would be foolish to think that only humans are capable of sensing impending death, and more importantly, consoling (in their own way) the dying. I miss my Mr. Kitty, and I could write reams about what I feel when I think of him, but anyone who has ever had a pet already knows that story. We know that our pets (and, of course, family) will all die one day, any day. Just not today.

Finally Back

I've been offline for six grueling months. It's been a living hell, although I did get lots of fodder for future entries. I've got a couple I worked on and should have up within a couple days. I don't know if anyone even checks here anymore, but I promise I'll be back in touch very shortly.

Holiday Blurbs

As much as I grouse about Christmas, I secretly get a little bit giddy when this time of year rolls around. Rude, crazed shoppers and endless sales telling us to “buy, buy, buy” always put a big damper on my holiday feelings, but I know that on Christmas morning there will be squeals of delight from wide-eyed children sitting in seas of wrapping paper admiring something they don’t know how they ever survived without. The children who have no Christmas temper my warm fuzziness, and I do what I can to help (but don’t tell anyone). Please enjoy my Christmas blurbs. I have nothing but time this weekend, so don’t be surprised if I post again here very soon. I’ll be spending the holidays alone, by the way, so if you’re in the Tampa area (all you females) and don’t have anything to do for Christmas, find me. I could use some Christmas company.

Christmas Wars

That nativity scenes have come under fire in the past for promoting Christianity is nothing new. It has been a cultural icon for Christians around the world for centuries, and you would think that people would be used to it by now, but in these days of people behaving like soft-shelled turtles, we are evidently too worried about other people’s feelings to the point where we begin to curtail our own. (If you’ve been here before, you know my feelings about religion, especially Christianity, and I don’t want anyone to think I’ve “seen the light”, but I’m going to stick up for them this one time.) The word “Christmas” has been around for an awfully long time. Every person in America knows what a Christmas tree is. Now, however, it seems that there is a growing movement to phase out the term “Christmas tree”, and replace it with “holiday tree”, so as not to offend non-Christians. I gotta tell you, I can’t remember the last time I heard something so utterly ridiculous. It is akin to saying that we’re not going to call movies “movies” anymore, because Hindus protest that the “moo” sound in the word makes them think of all the poor cows raised to be eaten, denied the glory of reincarnation. We will discard the term “movies” and call them “fleegles” and nothing else. Now that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? If they want to call it a Christmas tree, I say let ‘em! It’s been “Christmas Tree” for centuries, and it’s only now becoming offensive? If I hear someone say “Christmas tree”, I know exactly what they mean. You would think, though, that when some people hear the word, what they really hear is “Jesus Christ is your lord and savior and you must repent and follow only Him because your religion is dumb you godless bastard.” And that kind of thinking only bolsters the Christians, because they somehow figure that if you don’t like the word, you must be feeling guilty because you know deep down in your heart that you’re a sinner. See what I mean? I don’t get all upset and offended when I hear “Hanukkah” or “Ramadan” or even “Kwanzaa.” In fact, I really don’t think I could care any less what any group wants to call their holiday, unless they have a holiday phrase like “Happy Jeff’s An Idiot Day!” I’d have an issue with that one. The point is to just relax and let each group call their holiday and all of its trappings whatever they want to call it. The pissers and the moaners seem to forget that to make a word unpopular is to guarantee that it will never go away.

Beltway Holiday Bullshit

In keeping with the holiday theme, let’s look at a blatant attempt by Republican hopeful Mike Huckabee to lie to anyone who will listen while invoking the name of Christ. Huckabee has a Christmas message for you (available on any television) in which he specifically wishes everyone a Merry Christmas by reminding us that it is the birth of Christ that we celebrate. It’s a real “Jesus is the reason for the season, oh, and by the way, vote for me” plug. In it, he speaks to the camera as it slowly pans from left to right. In the background of the scene is a white bookcase whose shelves and supports form a distinct cross pattern that seems to float behind him. Pundits and analysts immediately pounced on what they thought was an attempt to sneak in a religious symbol. Why this is an issue when he’s talking about Christ is beyond me, but here’s the rub: Huckabee says he didn’t realize the bookcase formed a cross until after the ad began to air. Now, I don’t know about you, but I find that very difficult to believe. I may not be a Hollywood director, but I’d bet my bottom dollar that any number of editors and advisors not only noticed the cross, but oohed and aahhed at how good their presentation looked. They noticed it because it was supposed to be there. Huckabee insists with a chuckle that “it just happened that way”, but I’d sooner believe the Virgin Mary could miraculously appear on a grilled cheese sandwich. Oh…wait…never mind. Who does Huckabee think he’s fooling? Nothing happens in a professional commercial by accident, especially a political ad, and for Huckabee to shrug and say “Golly, it just happened” is a slap in the face to any thinking person (voter). Remember that when it comes time to choose, or suffer the consequences. On a side note, we won’t see that kind of thing out of Mitt Romney, but you know there are factions out there who will fault him for not mentioning Jesus. Even on his birthday, Christ is a double edged sword and it’s hard to tell which edge is keener.

Christmas Spirit

I met a person this year who does a truly thankless job each Christmas: She buys miniature Christmas trees with battery powered lights, and hand cuts literally hundreds of strips of red velvet from which she fashions tiny bows. She puts the bows on the trees (one on every branch), and on Christmas Eve, she takes the trees to various cemeteries where friends and family are buried, places them on the gravesites, and spends a moment remembering them. She also takes along a supply of all kinds of alcoholic beverages and has a shot of whatever that deceased person enjoyed drinking. This seemed to me, at first, to be an utterly pointless practice. Dead people don’t know you’re remembering them, and she does an awful lot of work for, well, nothing. The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that she doesn’t do it for the people she’s lost (although she would argue that point with me for eternity), but for herself, even if she doesn’t realize it. This may seem a bit like self-stroking, but you know what? If it makes her happy, who am I to begrudge that? With all the bloated hype over Christmas with its relentless commercialism, it’s nice to know that some people don’t use this time of year to buy trinkets for the living, but to reflect and remember those whom we have lost. My hat is off to you, LuRae, for your selfless Christmas spirit.

Wars, Tips and Dying Squirrels

I’m willing to bet that most people are happy to be home for the Thanksgiving holiday here in the United States, and I’m guessing that most countries have a similar day set aside for family feasting. Smart people everywhere know the value of friends and family, and most of us tolerate even the idiot relative we all have, if only for a day. You just never know what you’re going to hear at gatherings like that, and sometimes even the most mundane of conversations can evolve into a discussion that everybody wants to weigh in on. I had a few interesting conversations this holiday that I’d like to share with whoever reads this, so here they are in no particular order.

The War in Iraq: No matter how much you try to avoid this subject, it always pops up. Many people feel many ways about this issue, and I only wish a solution were as simple as some make it seem. I’m not sure how many points I scored with my argument (which, trust me, was pretty much forced out of me), but I present it here. You can say what you want about the Middle Eastern morass, but I urge all who vehemently oppose the war to consider this: Shiite Muslim extremists in Iraq have been targeting women for the crime of…being women. In the last couple years over 50 women have been murdered in the street for refusing to wear veils, and for wearing makeup. A prominent Iraqi television journalist (female) has had death threats as well as promises to be raped, beaten to death and thrown into the street with labels pinned to her body denouncing her as a whore. If you are an attractive woman with western tastes, you are a less than human. It doesn’t really matter if the big picture (the war) is seen as political or economical, what matters is that, left alone, Iraq could become as the Taliban controlled areas are in Afghanistan. Not our problem, perhaps, but would you feel the same if it were you or your sister or mother? One of the people I spoke to about this said “We are not the world’s police.” Fair enough, but are we not our brother’s keeper? If not us, meaning everybody else in the world, then who? If the people of the world ignore unjust behavior toward other human beings, we will have no business complaining when it happens to us, and if we leave it unchecked, we ensure that it will. Nobody should die for money or oil, but some things are worth fighting and dying for.

Fortunately, the conversation about the war with the armchair generals didn’t last very long, and we moved on down a very winding road that eventually led to the practice of tipping. I remember when tipping was reserved pretty much for waitresses, caddies and barbers. In today’s world, everyone expects a tip. Fast food places in Florida have tip jars on the counter prominently displayed near the cash register for maximum exposure to those easily guilted into giving up their money. I have a problem with that, and here’s why: A tip is a gratuity, and a gratuity is a gift. We give gifts to those whom we feel deserve them. For instance, a smiling, efficient waitress deserves a tip, as does an attentive bartender. The pizza kid who gets your order to you quickly should also get a little extra bump, as should a good caddy. In short, anyone who does above and beyond what is expected deserves a gratuity. To have a tip automatically added to a bill (say, for large parties at dinner) removes the impetus for the server to do their best. To call an automatic extra charge on my bill a “gratuity” insults me and demeans the word, because it’s not a gratuity. Let’s call it what it is: it’s a handout, like money you would give to a bum on the street. It’s something for nothing, a reward for no services rendered, a bonus for…nothing. Now, you waitresses don’t get me wrong: Unless I see gross negligence or a poor attitude, I always tip. I know there are tightwads out there who don’t tip, and for that I’m sorry, but if you work in the service industry, you (like everyone else who works) should be prepared to do your best and expect the worst. It’s hard to appreciate a good tip unless you know what it is to be stiffed.

Since I recently moved to Tampa, some of my holiday compatriots asked me what I thought of the city, and I said I liked it, save for the traffic woes. It can take upwards of 45 minutes to travel 15 miles, and I’m not wild about that at all. Many of the drivers behave as though they are the only people on the road, and drive with an utter lack of consideration for other vehicles. Their flagrant inconsideration makes me think that they simply don’t care if they cause an accident or hurt someone because of their disregard for anyone but themselves. I know this is a symptom of the human condition, so I was very surprised last night on my way home from work when I saw the oddest thing. There was a squirrel in the opposite lane from me that had been hit by a car, but wasn’t dead. It was flipping about, unable to move except to jerk spastically up and down. It looked like a puppet on a string, flailing but unable to move anywhere except up and right back down. Do you know what the odd thing about this was? Nobody wanted to hit it again. Cars approached and slowed, then veered to one side or another so as to avoid it. The everyday drivers who pull out in front of other vehicles, unmindful of the potential for a serious accident wouldn’t hit the squirrel again to stop it from suffering. They slowed to look, but did nothing. For the record, I was in another lane, so I couldn’t do it myself, but you can bet that if I had, someone would have seen me do it and thought me cruel or hollered obscenities at me, or worse. Amazing.

I see by my site meter that I’m getting hits from all over the world. Please feel free to comment on anything I’ve written in this blog, or just say hello from wherever you are. Thank you, and I’ll be posting again very soon. Ciao!

Cheap Suit

Other people may have been able to see hope in the sunshine shimmering off the waves, but the man with the cheap suit could see only despair. He had come from the north, confident that the warmer climes would bring him good luck, yet as he sat on a bench at the beach, he was all too aware that he had not only failed to make any money, but had actually lost some. He hadn’t lost everything, but he had lost enough to know that his wife was not going to be happy, no, not at all. He could already almost hear her chiding him for being too trusting. She always said that people were no good, and he had always argued otherwise. She was a good wife, but he didn’t have anything to compare her to. He thought to himself that maybe she was right after all. Nobody cared about anybody; they only thought of themselves.

As he looked out from the beach the sun was a ball in the sky and a line on the water; both glared at him, making him squint, and as he did, he could not convince himself that it was the sun responsible for his expression instead of the disappointment he felt. He had had such high hopes for this trip and it had turned out to be a dismal failure. He’d even spent a little money on the cheap suit he was wearing, thinking it might make him a little more impressive. It was supposed to be an easy money deal; he and the friend of a friend had put some money together to buy some old southern muscle cars that they could sell for twice the money back home up north. The trouble was, his “partner”, whom he barely knew, and who had all the money, never showed up to pay for the cars. He had trusted the wrong person, and in doing so, earned himself another dose of reality. He had a little money left, but not much. Within a week, he would have to return home empty handed and hear for the umpteenth time what a sucker he was.

He pulled a crumpled cigarette from a tattered pack and lit it. When he threw his spent match on the sand, a passing gull swooped down to investigate it, and then immediately flew off with a disappointed screech that sounded to the man like sarcastic laughter. He watched it fly off toward an old building that sat on stilts about a hundred yards off the shore. It was little more than a large box with windows long broken. It had the remnants of a ceiling and the floor must have still been somewhat intact; the side boards were weathered and gray where the guano hadn’t covered them. Oysters clung to the stilts like fuzzy socks on spindly legs. It didn’t sit straight up in the water, but leaned to the right. The man wondered how long it had been there, and how much longer it would be before it went totally off balance and slid into the sea. He took the final drag off his smoke and thought that he was much like the building. He, too, was askew, and in danger of slipping beneath the waves of disappointment that constantly lapped at him. How he stayed standing was sometimes a mystery to even him. He stubbed out his smoke and got up to walk to the town to get some dinner and a room before heading back tomorrow.

He was in a very small fishing village that attracted tourists who were willing to spend big to get away from the weather up north, if only for a little while. It seemed like every other house he passed had some sort of small business operating. One local merchant made his living renting golf carts, although the island was small enough to walk the entire circumference in about twenty minutes, but the tourists who wanted rustic didn’t want it so rustic that they had to walk. Another house offered watercolor paintings and another proffered jewelry made from shells. He could see a sign hanging a couple blocks away for an inn, and he was making his way there when he heard a clattering noise to his left that overcame the sound of the surf to his right. As he looked he saw an impossibly old woman bending to pick up the old crab trap she had dropped. The trap looked far too heavy for her, so he trotted up her walkway asking if she needed any help. She didn’t seem to hear him as he approached, and he thought he might startle her when he asked if he could help, but she behaved as though strangers appeared on her porch at any time; they were as common an occurrence as birds or bugs. She accepted his help in a matter-of-fact manner.

He stayed on her porch for a good half hour helping her arrange her antiques (as she called them; to the man in the cheap suit it was junk) and when she was finally satisfied with the display, she walked back into her house without a word. For a minute or so, the man was unsure if he should stay or go, but the woman came back out with a tray of lemonade and two glasses. The man gladly took a glass and was surprised when the woman produced a pint of bourbon from her apron pocket with a wink and a wry wrinkly smile. She offered him a seat on a rickety looking porch swing and they sat down side by side to drink their drinks and gaze out at the sea. The woman told him she had lived in this town all her life. She had been married for nearly fifty years when her husband passed and now she made a meager living trying to sell the junk he had collected to curious tourists. He told her how he came to be sitting here, although he left out the part about losing money. He had a feeling, though, that she already knew that. They made small talk about the fishing village, and he even heard some gossip about the other merchants as the sun fought a losing battle to keep itself up.

There came a time when the conversation stopped, as if it was too much effort to talk and watch the sun fall below the horizon at the same time. It was time for the man to be moving on; the conversation had dwindled beyond pleasantries and it was about to die completely. With his drink nearly empty, the man asked the old woman why no one had bothered to tear down the slanting stilted building that sat alone off the shore. He expected to hear about some fool who had started something he couldn’t finish or that it was a fish cleaning shack, but his words had sparked the woman’s tongue again. She looked out at the building for a moment, then back at the man, and as she did so, he felt that she could see everything he tried to keep hidden, like a mother looking at a lying child. The bottle of bourbon appeared again and the man listened to the old woman’s story.

The shack had been built in the fall of 1918 by Mister Douglas Llewellyn Pratt. He wasn’t a gentleman by birth, nor was he wealthy, but he had been born on the island and had lived there all his life. The man knew that Pratt’s title wasn’t “mister”, but the old woman seemed to think he deserved it. She said she was just a girl when the shack was built, and she remembered it as though it were yesterday. Mister Pratt had been, like most of the local men of the time, a fisherman. The woman remembered the men leaving at the break of dawn and not coming home until nearly dark every single day, as long as it wasn’t storming. They would take their catch to the mainland to sell it, and it was there that Mister Pratt had met a girl he was very sweet on. He wasn’t a rich man by any means, but he was determined to prove his love to his sweetheart. While he wooed the mainland girl, he spent every hour he wasn’t working and every dime he didn’t absolutely need to build a honeymoon house on the water. Of course everyone on the island knew what he was up to, and they all managed to keep it quiet from the mainland folks. Pratt had told his friends that he was going to marry the girl in January, right after the New Year arrived, and everyone pitched in to help him because that was the way things were done back then.

The old woman recalled that the whole island could feel the love that Pratt had, and they wanted to be a part of something that was almost like a fairy tale. Their lives were sometimes difficult and almost always mundane, and Pratt’s love for his woman brought a spark to the island that hadn’t been seen in some time. Everyone remembered what it was like to be in love. On the day that Pratt came home and announced to the islanders that he had asked his woman for her hand and that she had accepted, there was a boisterous party, with much well-wishing and a multitude of stories of how other loves had come to be. Some even told stories of loves lost, but all were told with a hearty laugh and a lesson learned, even if it was painful at the time. For a night, it seemed, love ruled the island and every married couple thought in their hearts of how they had felt when it had come to them. The man watched the old woman as she spoke about Pratt and his wedding. Her eyes were fixed on the shack in the water, but what was behind them was miles away.

The date was set and the islanders as well as the mainlanders made preparations to help Pratt and his girl get off on the best foot possible. The honeymoon house on stilts was finished. Some of the island women had gotten together and made huge quilts of bunting to hang from the roof and there was a day not too long before the wedding when wine and rowboats were employed to wrap pink ribbons around the stilts all the way to the high water mark, and more than a few island women got wet. Back on the mainland, a feast was prepared and it was going to take no less than five boats to get just the food over to the island. The local fishermen all had lists of who was going to ride on which boat to the ceremony which was to be held on the island in a gazebo at the park. The day before the wedding, there came word that the bride was feeling a bit ill, and it was assumed that the wedding day jitters were upon her. There was a flu that going around on the mainland and lots of people were under the weather, and the most jovial talkers said that if she’s too sick to be married now, then they would wait until she was well. Some even joked that the thought of marrying a fisherman who spent long days at sea would make for a wife who would constantly worry herself sick. The islanders went to bed still joking about Pratt and his woman, and each was giddy about the following day’s event. As a young girl, the old woman knew that love would bloom in the shack on the sea and all would catch its bouquet, if only for a day.

The woman stopped talking and stared out at the gray leaning shack. The man looked too, and was curious to know how the wedding went and what kind of revelry took place on the day that love visited the island. The woman stood mute as she looked at the shack; the faraway look she had earlier was even more pronounced now. After a couple minutes the man asked if she was alright, and urged her to finish the story. He had forgotten his own troubles for a while and didn’t want to break the reverie. The love story she told, even though it was second hand and generations before he was born, captivated him and made him feel as though he was living in the past and sharing in the joy that people have always felt. The old woman finally shifted her gaze from the shack to the younger man, and he could see that she was crying. She wasn’t bawling, but her eyes were full and a wistful tear snaked along her wrinkled, leathery cheek. The woman said people were dying everywhere. The Spanish Flu pandemic was at its height, and millions the world over were dying. Of course he wouldn’t have known that; it was years before he was born, but it surprised him that he had never heard of it. She said Pratt’s bride died the morning she was to be married.

She said he never sat foot in the honeymoon shack he had built for his bride. In fact, no one ever had. In time, things on the island got back to normal, but Douglas Llewellyn Pratt was never the same. Oh, he still worked, and occasionally he would laugh, but mostly he kept to himself. The bunting and ribbons that hung from the shack that were supposed to be symbols of a new life became instead bright, haunting sentinels that reminded the entire island of the fleeting nature of love and life. In time they succumbed to the weather and the sea, but the old woman said that for weeks after the wedding day they flapped in the breeze, sounding for all the world like tiny claps of thunder that scared her dreams away, leaving her awake and frightened. Sometimes, the old woman would get out of bed and look outside and see Mister Pratt standing on the beach, looking at the shack. She said that in spite of the sound of the flapping, tattered decorations and the surf, she could swear she could hear his heart breaking. She said that once, after she had grown up and Pratt was getting on in years, she had asked him why he hadn’t found another woman, and he told her that he didn’t try to not love another, it just never happened. He said he didn’t want to be alone, but he couldn’t force himself to love. It either happened or it didn’t, and it must have been his lot to have only one love in a lifetime. He smiled a rare smile at the woman, perhaps because he could see the worry in her eyes, and he told her that in spite of his misfortune, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He said he had known a love that quelled the fear that all men have in their hearts, if only for a little while, and he was thankful for that.

The man with the cheap suit looked at the old woman when she stopped talking, and she was looking at the shack, now bathed in moonlight, with guano glowing like strips of a whitewash job that was never finished. She stood silent for a few minutes, and then abruptly thanked him for his help, and bade him good evening. He thanked her for the drinks and walked off her porch toward the inn. He could hear the rattling of the empty glasses on the tray and the sound of her screen door shutting behind her in a house she shared with no one as he walked up the street. When he got to the sidewalk that led to the inn office, he stopped and looked back at the gray shack leaning in water. He thought of his wife at home and wondered if she were gone, would he have the same outlook as Douglas Llewellyn Pratt did? He wasn’t sure, and he went to bed uneasy, unable to stop himself from getting up and looking out at the empty leaning building that sat in the moonlight, never occupied, waiting to collapse.

Communication Breakdown

I’m sorry I’ve not posted in a while. So you know, I have been working on an essay about how it is to be single, but that’s going to have to wait a bit. I felt I was concentrating too much on me, and nobody wants to read that; I need to make it a bit more general. So, in lieu of writing about my mundane lifestyle, I decided to take a break from thinking too much and just rant about something that chaps my ass as few things do.

Unless you’ve translated this page, you’re reading it in English. It’s the only language I know fluently. I’m assuming, though, that the subject of today’s diatribe is not limited solely to English, but afflicts each and every tongue spoken on this planet. It is my sincere hope that I’m not the only person who grits their teeth when the one thing that separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom, the most basic tool humans use (and if I may be so bold as to say it), the ONLY thing that allows us to thrive is…utterly ignored. What could it be? Why, it’s communication, of course. I’ve found that while we all do a lot of talking, we are rarely communicating. Let me give some examples.

At lunch today, I got some pizza from a restaurant I’d never patronized before. I’ve only been in this area for a month, so I assumed some of my co-workers would have already tried it, so as a way to make small talk during lunch, I asked one of them if they had ever sampled this particular pizzeria’s fare. My exact words were “Have you ever tried the pizza from (this place)? The immediate response was, “They have excellent pizza.” Do you see the problem here? I don’t mean to sound snotty, but I didn’t ask what they thought of the pizza, I asked if they had ever tried it. The listener in this case assumed that I wanted to know what they thought of the food, which would probably have been my next question. My beef here is the assumption. What if I wasn’t going to ask what their opinion of the food was? And more importantly, why did my first question get ignored? This may seem nit-picky, but I told this story so you would understand when I tell the next one.

Not too long ago, some friends and I were discussing (OK, gossiping) some of our neighbors. During the course of the discussion, I mentioned of one of an acquaintance, “For an ex-cop Jesus freak, he’s a nice guy,” and you would have thought from the reaction of some of those I was speaking with that I had called his mother a whore and kicked his dog. The general consensus was, “Just because he’s a religious ex cop doesn’t make him an idiot!” If you’ll re-read what I said, you’ll see that I said he was a nice guy. I didn’t call him an idiot; in fact I complimented him on NOT being an idiot. Oh, but I had a hard time convincing some others that I was being nice. Evidently, as soon as they heard the words “Jesus freak” and “ex cop”, they reacted to what they thought I meant and not to what I said. And that, my friends, is a very foolish way to get through life. I have found that I can save myself a lot of embarrassment by listening to what is said and not what I think the speaker means. I once heard a saying that has stuck with me since the day I heard it: “You have two ears and one mouth. That means you should listen twice as much as you talk.” Words to live by.

Although conversations with friends can provide endless examples of non-communication, advertisers are, aside from politicians, the absolute worst offenders when it comes to butchering the language and making it seem acceptable to do so. Here in Florida, there has been a radio commercial running lately for female knee replacement. Apparently, male and female knees have subtle differences, which makes perfect sense. In the commercial, a male voice is speaking of knee replacement surgery, and is repeatedly interrupted by a female voice who shrilly blabs what the male voice was going to say anyway, as if hearing about female knee surgery from a female is more convincing. I say, fine and dandy and I agree that women might feel more comfortable hearing it from someone of their own gender. My problem is that by interrupting the male voice, it is implied that those stupid men couldn’t possibly understand a woman’s physiology, and their voices should be drowned out as soon as they start speaking. Well, not only is it just plain rude to interrupt when someone else is talking, but from my (possibly myopic) viewpoint, those who interrupt should be given no credence whatsoever. I wonder what board of executives agreed that rudeness, especially when it comes to medical procedures, is a good way to attract customers.

How I would love to continue to provide examples of our abysmal failure to communicate, but you get the picture. I often wonder how we have managed to get as far as we have given the deplorable state of our spoken interaction. Do me, and more importantly, yourself a favor the next time you are talking to someone. LISTEN to what they’re saying and if asked a question, ANSWER IT. You might think you know what the person wants, but chances are they probably just want to know what they’ve asked. It’s really not very hard.

Advice 101

I read with interest an essay posted by a friend the other day that endeavored to offer advice to the younger generation. Her blog, “This Happy Breed”, is listed in my links to the right, and it’s worth a read. I am a bit of a curmudgeon. I’m not so sure that young people want to hear what we geezers have to say (especially when it comes to sex). I know I spent a good deal of time in my youth ignoring what I later found to be sage advice (and I thanked my lucky stars that no adults ever offered any type of sex advice. I was happy to blunder through that on my own). Why, then, do I feel the need to emulate my colleague and offer unsolicited advice to ears that are most likely deaf? I don’t know. The goal, I suppose, would be to save them from making the same mistakes I have made, but no lesson really hits home like the ones experienced. We can get ideas from reading of others’ misfortunes, but an idea is just that, whereas a rude and often painful awakening is a personal experience that leaves a mark not soon forgotten. And so, with a less than enthusiastic hope that my words will be read by those who need to hear them the most, much less taken to heart, I still want to humbly offer them.

ON RELATIONSHIPS: You have quirks and so does everyone else. The trick is to find someone whose quirks you can put up with while they simultaneously put up with yours. Don’t judge your mate by how he or she looks, but rather by how they react to you, and you to them. Mistrust, harsh words and ill will are the road signs to failure, no matter how beautiful the ride.

ON LEARNING: Strive to learn as much as you can about as many things as you can. Learn a little about a lot of things and you will be an interesting person. Keep in mind that the more you learn, the more you will realize how much you don’t know.

ON FOOD: Taste everything at least once. And by all means, taste with your mouth, not your eyes. If you don’t like it, then don’t eat it again. Never criticize another’s cooking, at least within earshot of the cook.

ON FEAR: Don’t be afraid of things you don’t understand. If you fear something, find out what makes it tick. Chances are you’ll find that it’s not that scary.

ON RELIGION: NEVER let someone else tell you that they know what God or any other deity thinks. This is very important. Beware the people who claim to know what gods want.

ON PEER PRESSURE: Much like the previous subject, don’t let others tell you what you can and can’t do. Keep your eyes open. If your friends are doing something that you KNOW is wrong and they want you to join, or it’s something that you don’t want to do, don’t do it. It really is that simple.

ON PETS: Don’t have one unless you are prepared to: Feed it. Clean up after it on a daily basis. Engage it so it has a meaningful life. Know that it’s going to die and leave a hole in you that will never fully close.

ON LIVING: Every day that you draw a breath is a good day. It beats the alternative.

ON JUDGING PEOPLE: This can be a toughie, and you should know that you’re going to make a mistake and trust someone you shouldn’t. However, keep in mind that people who are nice sometimes and sometimes not are not nice people. Never trust someone who’s nice to you but rude to others.

ON BEING A GOOD PERSON: This should be a no-brainer. The golden rule (or karma, if you like) applies. If you wouldn’t want it done to you, don’t do it to others.

There are, of course, many lessons to be learned in life, and my list is by no means comprehensive. However, if you are of a mind to take advice, check out this page (start with “life” as a topic) to hear what others say are keys to happiness, and what to watch out for. Many of them are clichés, but if they had no value, they wouldn’t be clichés, would they?

NOTE: Thanks, Angie for inspiring me to write this, although I still don’t think it will do any good. If I may quote Willa Cather: “The dead might as well try to speak to the living as the old to the young.” I just love that one!

War Stories

Regular readers know I’m not a big fan of television. So much of the programming on American television is banal, mind numbing tripe, and I often wonder how it is that we can be a world superpower and still find ourselves satisfied to be spoon fed so-called “reality” shows and think it’s good entertainment. Now, before you haul off and call me an uppity snob, I want to be the first to say that there is a time and a place for mindless distractions. Those of us in the working class need and deserve a little time spent watching contrived sitcoms or inane game shows, if only to allow us a brief escape from the ennui of daily routines. Sometimes it’s good to forget about how difficult life can be, if only for a little while, and I certainly wouldn’t begrudge anyone that small luxury. Fortunately, all of television isn’t a glaring, blaring miasma of idiocy; every so often I’ll see something on the box that renews my faith in the intelligence of Americans, and sometimes, I’ll see something that really moves me. This week has been one of those times when I am actually glad I have a television set.

I have sung the praises of PBS in the past, and I’m happy to say that it is one of the few channels I can receive. I have been watching the new Ken Burns documentary called simply, “The War” this week, and if you haven’t been watching it, you’re really missing something. With each episode, I am struck with many different emotions, and I won’t bore you with them right now. Suffice to say that for the first time in my life, I have been literally moved to tears by television.

I don’t know if it’s the current war we’re engaged in or if it’s because I’ve been living alone for so long, or if my emotional stirrings are due to the frank yet powerfully poignant style of the presentation of the documentary, but I do know that I found it very difficult to watch the show without feeling a connection to the stories and lives of people who lived so long ago. Since the dawn of the written word, and later, with motion pictures, war stories have been told and retold to the point where most people simply don’t realize what a horrific event a war is. Epic poems and Hollywood tell the tales mostly from the winner’s point of view, and it is a rare occasion that we hear the human side of the story. As I watched the documentary, I found myself thinking about wars in general, and I decided that it doesn’t matter if you were a member of the axis or the allies, the Normans or the Saxons, the Viet Cong or the Americans. Lost in the stories of political victories and defeats are the human stories. It doesn’t matter if the combatants were tunnel rats in Vietnam or infantry at the Battle of Hastings: The fact remains that no matter which side you were on, there were women and children waiting helplessly for the inevitable bad news.

“The War” tells a story of World War 2 that focuses on how the cataclysmic struggle of 1938-1945 affected four small American towns. Hometown boys from Main Street went off to the far corners of the world to fight the enemy; many of them never returned, and many that did were maimed and broken, both physically and mentally. In many ways, World War 2 is looked upon with a sort of nostalgic wistfulness, but the naiveté of the soldiers is a timeless factor in the endless endeavor we call war. Spurred by patriotism, our boys (and girls) fight to preserve the way of life we think is right, and there can be no doubt that there are those who would take that way from us and impose their will upon the weak and helpless (or unarmed). “The War” illustrates that point perfectly.

I thought long and hard as I wrote this, and have re-edited it several times. I found myself going off on tangents that have been beaten to death by authors much more experienced than myself. The simple fact is that until there are no longer men who would subjugate peace loving people, war is, in every sense, a necessary evil. Many of the testimonials given in Burns’ documentary expressed frustration and a lack of understanding as to why they were on the other side of the world, fighting and dying for what they perceived as a politician’s war. When the Nazi concentration camps were liberated, however, those in Europe saw first hand the true reason for their presence. Much is made of the Jewish experience, and rightly so, but keep in mind that the Nazis killed almost double the six million Jews; homosexuals, handicapped, gypsies, Russians and other prisoners, all guilty of an accident of birth fell victim to Hitler’s voracious killing machine. In the Pacific theater, the Japanese war machine, although not as blatantly murderous as the Nazis, was equally adept at dividing and conquering, and had both sides been able to achieve their goals, one can only surmise that the end result would have been a war between the two factions for control of the world. They were allies, but only as long as it benefited them. They would surely have turned on each other; they knew no other way, and for a reason that baffles me, they could not see that.

As I said, the show moved me, even though the events were so long ago that within another decade or so, there will not be one veteran of that conflict left alive. Modern events, though, assure us that there will always be more inductees into the veteran’s organizations, and it makes me literally weep for our kind. We do great things, but we also do horrible things to each other. Our propensity for good needs to overcome our desire for power, and until it does, we will need a crop of young men to feed our absurd bloodlust. The key to stopping wars between men is really very simple: Every people of the earth must not allow themselves to be led by the ignorant, nor be duped into believing that wrong is right. The “golden rule” must apply to everyone, or it means nothing. The veterans of every war know that, and we should be thankful to them for being forced to learn the lesson that so many of us know by heart but do not fully understand. We need to hear their stories so that the day will come when all we have left of war IS old stories.

Good News!

Hello, readers. I'm sorry I've been out of touch for so long. Much has been happening, and I'm happy to say that I finally have a decent job. I've moved, and as hoity-toity as it sounds, I'm editing technical journals, and am having a great time doing it. I still don't have internet as often as I'd like (stupid wireless glitches), but I'm working on it. For what it's worth, I have written an essay about war, and I hope to post it within a day or so, after I've edited it. Thanks for waiting, and I promise I'll be posting more regularly very soon. By the way, Robin, my email has not changed. Toodles for now!

Out of Touch

Hello to my few loyal readers. I'm currently in a place where internet access is difficult. As soon as I get this remedied, I'll have some stuff to post. I've actually written some stuff, but can't get it online just yet.

Peace, Drugs and Rock & Roll

Anybody who has read this blog on a somewhat regular basis knows that one of the things that really gets under my skin is institutions (be they religious or political) that feel morally obligated to tell others what to think and when to think it. I get so tired of people who think they know what’s best for the rest of us going out of their way to help save us from ourselves. I can’t think of more apt examples for words like audacity and arrogance. And oddly enough, my beef today is with words. Actually, just one word, a word that the FCC has decided we are not allowed to hear.

Is it what many consider a crude word, like the infamous “F” word that millions use on a daily basis, but aren’t allowed to hear broadcast publicly? No. Is it what the bleeding hearts consider a racial slur, like the “N” word, a word used flippantly by those who (often in the same breath) chastise others for using? No. Is it a blasphemous word, the use of which can be cause for arrest and even beheading in backwards countries ruled by zealots? No. In fact, it is a common word, a word so mundane and ordinary that it can be seen plastered on neon signs in just about every town in this country. The word we are no longer allowed to hear is “drugs”.

The popular Canadian band “Nickelback” has a song called “Rockstar” that was released just a month ago, and in that song, the newly dreaded “D” word is used not once, but five times. I think I was fortunate, because I inadvertently heard it before it was censored. I liked it the first time I heard it, and in spite of the “D” word usage, it didn’t make me want to sell everything I own and become a junkie, which is apparently what the FCC thinks will happen if people hear the words “drugs” or “drug dealer”. It’s as if hearing the word will cause people to deviate from their normal line of thinking and embrace the ideology of cultural icons, of musicians, of people they have never met. Let’s follow that line of logic for a minute.

Consider these lyrics, written by a musician so dangerous that the FBI felt the need to keep a file on him:
“Imagine no there’s no countries/it isn’t hard to do/nothing to kill or die for/and no religion too/Imagine all the people/living life in peace…” The man, of course, was John Lennon, and his subversive message was, quite simply, world peace. Call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure that song reached a lot more people than Nickelback’s latest, and I don’t seem to remember hearing that formerly hostile people realized the error of their ways after hearing that song. By the same token, I just don’t see hordes of previously law abiding citizens (yes, even the young ones) giving up on sobriety because of Nickelback and frantically phoning the local crackheads for some rock. The obvious point is, I really don’t think that hearing the lyrics to a song is going to change someone’s behavior, and it angers me that there is a federal agency with, no doubt, a multi-million dollar budget deciding what words must be bleeped out of the public’s consciousness. It’s absurd.

For the edification of the FCC, I say this: As long as people behave like, well, people, and feel the need for a reality beyond that provided by the standard five senses, they are going to use drugs. The Nickelbacks and the Ozzy Osbournes of the world did not start a drug epidemic and I don’t think they can make it any worse. And for Pete’s sake, everybody knows that forbidden fruit is the sweetest. Attempting to demonize drugs only makes them more desirable. By attempting to hide the lyrics of the song, you are ensuring that more attention is going to be paid by a public who, as it happens, actually enjoys listening and deciding for themselves what they like and what they don’t.

I’d like to prattle on some more on this topic, because it’s such a good one, but I just heard Bobby Darin’s “Mack The Knife”, and I feel the need to do some schmoozing with the floozies that will line up at my door after I kill a few men. I don’t want to, but I just can’t help myself. The music has moved me.

Deewee

In 1997, I was convicted of an “OUIL”, which means “operating under the influence of liquor”. In short, I got a DUI, or “deewee” as the phonetic punsters like to say. It’s a funny, almost Seussian word for describing an event that is anything but funny. But you wouldn’t know it isn’t funny by seeing the sentences recently meted out to Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Ritchie, both convicted of multiple DUIs. Pundits and bloggers alike have no doubt already beaten this topic to death; to say that celebrities get a different kind of justice is to repeat what everyone already knows. However, I want to weigh in on this subject from what I hope is a different point of view, and I’m sure it’s one that is not going to be popular, but that’s OK. If Lindsay Lohan can spend one day in jail and perform 10 days of community service for a second DUI (cocaine possession is apparently not a crime in California), and Nicole Ritchie can serve 84 minutes in jail for a second offense, with no fines and no license suspensions, then I don’t have a problem with my unpopular views.

That rich people get a different brand of justice is an unfortunate reality and it pisses me off, and it should you too. But the bigger problem here is in the drunken driving law itself. We have laws in place because a society without them just wouldn’t work. There has to be accountability for transgressions. If you steal or kill or rape you should be punished. If you commit an act that harms another person, you are guilty. Read that again. If you commit an act that harms another person, you are guilty. We put people in jail for things they have done.

Remember George Orwell’s “1984”? You’ll recall that they had “Thought Police”, a force that found people guilty of thinking what the state considered wrong thoughts. In Orwell’s frightening (and not implausible) world, people were punished for merely thinking the wrong way. They were punished for things they might do. It’s ridiculous, right? Orwell was of course being satirical, but in a very prophetic way. He knew that it is a very small leap to go from crimes committed to crimes merely thought of. How could we possibly punish people for thinking or for crimes they might commit? Well, my friends, I’m no lawyer, but isn’t the drunk driving law set up to punish people for something they might do?

If you drink and drive you might hurt someone (and believe me when I say that there is absolutely no excuse for injuries and deaths caused by idiots who are drunk behind the wheel), you should be severely punished. If Lindsay Lohan had hurt or killed the woman she was obviously menacing, or if Nicole Ritchie had done the same to someone while she was driving on the wrong side of the freeway, we would be shocked and angry. But would we look the other way because they’re celebrities? Would their fame somehow mitigate their crime? They’re obviously stupid, but we can’t put people in jail for being dumb. How bad do you think our prison overcrowding system would be if every moron you know had to go to jail? But, by speculating on what they might have done, aren’t we behaving like Orwell’s thought police; aren’t we vilifying them for something that didn’t happen?

This argument is hair splitting, at best; drunk driving is a recipe for disaster, but not every drunk driver kills or hurts someone when they do it. I guess my main point is that if it were you or me who was caught behaving like these stupid spoiled whores (a nod to South Park) we would suffer consequences that quite often destroy us little people. You pay the state a fine and lose your license, but in many states you are additionally forced to do penance by attending alcoholics anonymous, a blatantly Christian organization, as if God can help you to not be so stupid. You are also punished by the insurance companies with higher rates for up to five years. If you want to change jobs, background checks can and do follow you and hinder you, perhaps indefinitely, with the fact that you’ve already paid your societal debt ignored. All this and more for being stupid and doing well…nothing. Again, I’m not a lawyer, but I thought that you could only be punished once for a crime that you actually committed.

If you or I or any regular person gets a DUI, we are looked upon as the dregs of society, a menace to all things good and wholesome, and we bear watching for the rest of our lives with the slavering state ready to pounce on us should we step out of line again. And, as everybody knows, if you get more than one DUI, you are punished for the new offense and the first one as well. It can ruin your life for years. Again, somehow, the constitution has been rewritten to make sure that we are punished twice for the same crime. But as we have witnessed the Lohans and the Ritchies can and do commit multiple drunken driving offenses, and the public watches eagerly because they are different than us, and the second or third offense might be the one that turns them around and boosts their career. I’m waiting for them to pull a Michael Vick and find Jesus, because I know He has nothing better to do than to make sure that celebrities are not held to the same standard as the little people.

As a final note, I want to say that I am not endorsing drunk driving. I am sorry for the people, good people who have lost a loved one because of another person’s stupidity. All I’m saying is that legislation that punishes for crimes that might happen is a dangerous thing. And in case it didn’t show, I’m angry that popularity is both a license for arrogant behavior and a viable defense for being an idiot.

Call Me Hawk

I love “Mad” magazine. I haven’t read it in years, but some of my fondest childhood memories are of slumber parties (where my parents weren’t) where I could sit with my buddies and read “Mad” and “Vampira” and “Famous Monsters of Filmland.” I could go on and on about “Mad”, and how much I loved some of the artists. Don Martin, Al Jaffee, Sergio Aragones and the “usual gang of idiots” never failed to amuse and yes, I’ll say it, educate me. In particular, I remember a short lived series by Al Jaffee called “Hawks and Doves”, and I’ll be damned if I can find any information on the series, but the basic premise was that officer Hawks was always in opposition to Private Dove(s); it was juxtaposed against the Vietnam War. As I remember, the strip did not take sides, and instead skewered both for their views, which ultimately lead the young reader to realize that neither side had the upper hand. The bottom line was that killing each other was a bad idea no matter how you sliced it, and for years, I clung to that philosophy. Today, however, I am going to deviate from that. I am going to be hawkish. Read a little more, and if you don’t agree with me, fine. I will gladly recant my position if a suitable argument can be provided to refute my stance, which is simply this: If we (and I mean everybody, not just America) do not stop the Taliban in Afghanistan, we will at best have blood on our hands, and at worst, become victims ourselves.

As of this writing, the Taliban say they will release two of twenty one South Korean captives in exchange for the release of 21 Taliban prisoners held in Afghanistan prisons. Doesn’t this seem fair, in a way? Kind of? Maybe? Well, no, it doesn’t. It doesn’t even resemble fair play. In fact, it is a perversion of what we would think fair play is. 23 South Korean Christian relief workers in Afghanistan were taken prisoner in late July. Two have already been shot in cold blood, murdered by the Taliban, and now, under the guise of diplomacy, they want to negotiate for the release of the remaining 21. Just today, the Taliban captors say they are engaged in talks to successfully secure the release of two sick Korean women, as if they are somehow suddenly compassionate captors. “God willing,” they say, the captives will be released, if, of course, the Taliban prisoners held in prison are released. The Taliban would have you believe that it’s not them, but Allah himself who is responsible.

I want to spread my hawkish wings and sharpen my hawkish beak and say that if anyone goes out of their way to negotiate with the Taliban, they are legitimizing terrorist tactics, and giving credence to the notion that kidnapping and murdering innocents is an acceptable means to an end. If this were the way the world worked, any country could kidnap a bunch of North Koreans, (or Iranians) and murder a few, and then negotiate the release of the rest to put a stop to their nuclear weapons program. Or maybe, they could kidnap some Dutch residents and show those pot smoking, prostitution-friendly deviants that their lifestyle won’t be tolerated. (That’s just an example, of course. It is my goal to visit Amsterdam just once before I die.) My obvious point is that America, and every other civilized culture doesn’t resort to that sort of barbaric, prehistoric behavior because we’ve realized that it is inhumane, and counterproductive to the growth of the species. The cretins of the Taliban, however, seem to be stuck in the cave, and can’t find their way out. In fact, I don’t think they want to, which is why I think we should wipe them off the face of the earth. And by the way, when I say “we,” I mean every thinking, empathetic person no matter what their country of origin.

The obvious argument here is that two wrongs don’t make a right, and if I’m advocating murder, I’m no better than them. The difference, though, is that they murder proactively, (and they won’t stop) whereas I am being reactive. They are in all respects a cancerous tumor, and as we would remove an infection from a body, we must remove the Taliban from the body of humanity before they infect and destroy it. The doves among us would cry for reeducation, and I’m not completely opposed to that, but they often fail to understand that this sort of religious fervor is instilled at a very young age. I remember learning things at a young age, and some of those things are ingrained so deeply that I’m not sure I could change my mind about them, and that’s the problem with reeducation. You and I know that it’s wrong to steal and lie and kill, but in order to understand the Taliban mentality, you must understand that the children are taught, just like you and I were, that killing is good if done in the name of God. Think about that for a minute. The lessons that most people learn (golden rule stuff) are a part of our collective being, and although it’s hard to believe, there is another school of thought that believes the opposite, that killing is good if done for the right reason, and it is just as ingrained in them as it is in us. I would spare the children (although I’d keep a close eye on them) and kill the men. I would do this because I know that if given the chance, they would do the same to me. Am I being paranoid? Maybe, but consider that if a militant Taliban zealot were to read this, I would be marked for death for speaking my mind.

Did you know that under Taliban law, it is a crime for women to laugh loud enough to be heard? That it is a crime to listen to music or watch movies or TV for anyone? That a person can be executed for possessing literature deemed “inappropriate”? Did you know that all people are forced to pray five times a day; failure to do so is cause for execution. There are those who would say it’s not our business to be the police of the world, but can you stand idly by in the enlightened 21st century and watch this sort of treatment inflicted on fellow human beings? People should not be punished for the crime of being born in Afghanistan. If we do nothing, we are just as guilty as the zealots of the Taliban. We are the world’s police and believe me, they want us to intervene.

Is the Taliban evil? Maybe not in the biblical sense, but in the realistic sense, it is. I am loathe to discredit alternative philosophies; indeed I welcome them as a means to improve, or at least, expand my own perspective. But the virtual enslavement of people and the kidnapping and killing of innocents is a way I cannot accept, and to see it in action in our time is anathema. It makes me sick and it should make you sick too. I’ve used this euphemism before, and I want to make it clear that I don’t use it in a cavalier fashion, so people please listen. Make no mistake: If thinking people do not crush the Taliban way of thinking, there will be no more thought.

More Blurbs

I’ve been rather slack about new postings lately, mostly due to mundane problems that aren’t of any interest to anyone who reads this. These mysterious setbacks, however, make a very convenient excuse for not writing. To help myself get back in the swing I’m posting another column of short blurbs. I hope you find these satisfactory.

On Barry Bonds: As most of you know, I really don’t care much for organized sports, except for hockey. I don’t see how being able to put a basketball through a hoop or smack a baseball 400 feet warrants a multimillion dollar paycheck. Frankly, I find it obscene that the some of the highest paid people in our society are actors and athletes. We hold them in high esteem, as if they have done something meaningful or important. In any case, the baseball world was all atwitter with Barry Bonds breaking Hank Aaron’s home run record the other day. For some people, the fact that he used performance enhancing steroids means nothing, and that’s a real shame. It’s cheating, plain and simple, and to recognize his “achievement” speaks volumes for those who consider such things important. Bonds, of course, denies using such drugs, but his former trainer sits in jail for refusing to say if he supplied drugs to the new home run king. Much has been made of this, but I think it bears repeating: Athletes in their mid thirties do not naturally, in the space of one year, almost double their batting abilities along with their physical size. Bonds can deny all he wants, but he’s a cheater, and he knows it. He’s just hoping you won’t care. And if you don’t, shame on you.

There Are Worse Things Than Acne: A while back I wrote an essay about having to deal with the agony of acne. It was an awful thing to have to deal with, especially as an awkward teenager trying to survive puberty. All things, however, need to be put into perspective, and I got a big dose of that this evening while watching The Learning Channel. The episode dealt with the plight of a young teenaged girl in East Africa by the name of Pastina Nkotki. Her personality was one of any teenaged girl in any country, and it was immediately apparent that although we, as people, are separated by our countries and cultures, we are all basically the same creatures. She seemed normal in every way except one: She had an enormous tumor growing beneath her face. To call it a monstrous deformity is putting it mildly. For a short video that shows Pastina, click here. I think what struck me the most as I watched this show was Pastina’s attitude. Despite her appearance, she seemed perfectly normal, and she was. Her relatives thought her bewitched, and hid her from sight lest they be outcasts in their village. They were literally dirt poor, and couldn’t afford modern medical treatment. During the show, Pastina was shown laughing and crying, talking and silently thinking, and behaving in every way except for her appearance like a normal child. It was literally heart wrenching, and I was ashamed as I watched her, ashamed for thinking that acne was a horrible cross to bear. There’s no happy ending here either, as Pastina died just three months after the surgery to remove the tumor. I couldn’t help but think that if I were in her shoes, I don’t think I’d be nearly as strong as she was.

Punishment Fits Crime: Many times, it seems, we put people in jail for crimes that really don’t warrant jail time. Jail overcrowding is a serious problem, and I really don’t see how putting non violent offenders in with those who really do belong locked up serves justice. Call me crazy, but in today’s world, where image seems to matter much more than substance, I think the best deterrent for non violent offenders is to hit them where it hurts most: In the ego. I would like to see the return of public humiliation (and I don’t care how un-PC that is) in our justice system. Bring back the stocks and rotten tomatoes! Cruel and unusual? I think a little embarrassment is a good thing, and thankfully, I’m not alone. Philip Kolinski from Michigan was convicted of bilking unsuspecting donors by asking for scrap metal that he said he was going to use to build a memorial to US veterans. He took the donations, but sold the metal, having no plans to build anything. His punishment? He had to scrub a monument to veterans with a toothbrush while wearing a T-shirt that read “I Stole From Veterans.” Now that, my friends, is how our justice system should work for non violent offenders. Not just generic, anonymous community service, but shame. It’s a powerful motivator. Here’s a picture and story of this dork serving his sentence.

With that, I’ll sign off. It’s a perplexing, sad and funny world all at once.

Murderous Movie Mayhem

You couldn't possibly know this, but I started this rant last night, and typed several pages before I realized I had gone way off topic. My beef today concerns the discrepancies between well established stories and themes that are a part of American pop culture and the positively shameless “re-working” by Hollywood to “improve” them. I can think of so many examples that it’s hard for me to concentrate, and I know I’m not the first person to lament the dumbing down of literature in film. Indeed, much of the pulp that flows out of Hollywood to be passed off as entertainment is truly insulting to thinking persons, and the outright audacity of movie makers’ plot changes when bringing classics to the screen is horrifying. Somebody has to keep sounding the alarm, though, lest we begin to believe that Hollywood knows what good entertainment is.

For context, let’s start with an old example. In 1975, Stephen King published “The Lawnmower Man” in Cavalier magazine, and it was later included in a collection of short stories called “Night Shift.” (If for some reason you haven’t read it, shame on you.) In 1992, the geniuses in Hollywood decided to make a movie with the same title, and even included King’s name in the title. Fans (like myself) who loved the story went to theaters expecting to see a fantasy/horror film with a bizarre plot and even some classic elements of Greek mythology. (King himself says his work is the McDonald’s of literature, but millions of satisfied customers can’t be wrong.) In any case, the movie had absolutely no similarities to the story at all. None. It was like going to see a film adaptation of Goldilocks with a brunette and no bears. King sued to have his name removed from the title, and in my opinion, he was being more than civil. If it were me, I think I would have used the murderous lawn mower on those who butchered my story.

In the present, the same problem still exists, and it’s getting worse. Tomorrow a film adaptation of the classic cartoon “Underdog” will hit theaters. I haven’t seen it, but I’ve seen the promotional ads, and I can tell you right now that the cartoon I loved as a child is nothing like the sappy, contrived shit that’s going to try to pass itself off as an homage to an American pop culture icon. You should be able to tell this is bugging me, as most of my loyal readers will notice that I rarely use profanity in this blog, but this movie is profane, and it deserves the worst treatment I can give it. Insult Underdog at your peril! And before anyone points their finger and accuses me of dismissing or deriding a movie I haven’t seen yet, let me say this: I loved the Underdog cartoon. I have seen the ads for the movie. There is no comparison. None.

The snippets we see in the promos portray Underdog as a snarky, wise cracking (live action) pooch whose utterances clearly imply that he is smarter than the bumbling humans that surround him. This attitude is completely out of character. Anyone who has seen the original Underdog knows that he is “humble and lovable.” Notice that humble is the first attribute used to describe him. With a penchant for speaking in rhymes, the cartoon Underdog was always polite, even when chastising villains. Wally Cox, who voiced the cartoon dog, must be spinning in his grave over the insipid dialogue, mundane delivery of those lines, and the overall distortion of the original character. I don’t have to see the movie to know that it’s going to suck; the promotional ads alone are all I need.

While I’m on the subject, how about I bash another movie coming out that, in my opinion, is going to seriously set back literary understanding for an unsuspecting generation of movie-goers? Any student of literature should cringe at the following announcement: Angelina Jolie is going to portray Grendeldame in an upcoming film adaptation of Beowulf. If you don’t know anything about Beowulf, again, shame on you. Wikipedia says Beowulf is “the single major surviving work of Anglo-Saxon heroic poetry…” in existence. It is the holy grail of written English literature. It is a printed work that is over one thousand years old; it is the only one of its kind. You could call it a classic, but it would be more apt to refer to it as THE classic.

I checked out the official movie site for the film, and found these quotes: After slaying Grendel (a monster), Beowulf “incurs the hellish wrath of the beast’s ruthlessly seductive mother.” Also, this quote: “Anthony Hopkins as the corrupt King Hrothgar.” The synopsis on the website was very short, but it was enough to provide me with some ammunition for my rant. Firstly, both Grendel and his mother, Grendeldame, are described CLEARLY in the story as being monsters. They do not speak. They do not seduce. They are monsters. They do kill and eat/drain blood from their victims, which is, in itself, a perfect way to portray them onscreen. Thanks to advancements in CGI, you would think Hollywood would relish the chance to bring a classic story to life without a guy in a rubber monster suit. But no, that’s not good enough. They have to give Grendeldame the power to appear as a human and to tempt and seduce the hapless men. How do I know this without seeing the movie? Call it magic, but I suspect that in order for Grendeldame to appear seductive, she’s going to have to appear as Angelina Jolie (whom, I admit, is very good at looking seductive). Again, the Grendeldame of the story does not seduce nor talk. She kills men, period.

Secondly, King Hrothgar is not corrupt. In fact, he is described as “protector” of the Danes, and if I may go one step further, he is based on a real person. He is not corrupt; in fact he is revered. He is thankful, although somewhat embarrassed that Beowulf has shown up to help him defeat the pall that Grendel has cast on his castle. In short, he is a mortal who is to be saved by the superhuman hero. (This should ring some symbolism bells.) Written when Christianity was is its infancy, Beowulf is a told by a Christian author to a pagan audience. We certainly wouldn’t want THAT to be told to the modern audience. I don’t know what kind of foolish “plot enhancements” the Hollywood whores will come up with, but you can be sure of this: They will be contrived, transparent, and wholly unnecessary elements that have nothing to do with the original story.

I will admit that it must be very difficult to bring the images of the written word to life on the big screen. The main problem, of course, is that readers see their own images and put their own faces on characters, and many times the movie images do not jive with what the reader has imagined. I will also admit that sometimes this works. For instance, in the novel “Jaws,” the character of Quint is described as being bald; Robert Shaw was not. However, his portrayal of Quint was mesmerizing. I can overlook that sort of thing. Indeed, in order to enjoy movies, it is necessary to suspend disbelief; no one would enjoy werewolf movies if they remained grounded in the fact that no such creature exists. I have no problem with monsters or supernatural occurrences in film. I do, however, have a problem with changing the core elements of characters or plots from literature or previous movies/TV and passing them off as faithful renditions of classics. I cannot figure out why so many movie makers feel it necessary to change what was a perfectly good story. Like a child in a store with shining baubles, they just can’t seem to keep their hands off, and they leave greasy fingerprints on what they’ve touched.